There’s an unacknowledged marvel in Nigeria, a national institution so revered and influential that its very mention invokes awe; and not a small dose of amnesia. I’m speaking, of course, about the glorious Memory Loss Clinic for the Elite, a facility where unsolved corruption cases go to receive a lifetime membership in our collective oblivion.
Take a walk down the memory lane of scandals past, and you’ll encounter a magical fog. Who remembers the details of the N2.5 billion pension fund scam? Anyone? No? Good. That’s exactly how the clinic works. Through a combination of political gymnastics, endless court adjournments, and public desensitisation, these cases are carefully wrapped in a blanket of vagueness. Brilliant, isn’t it?
The beauty of this clinic lies in its inclusivity. From the infamous Dasukigate, which popularised the phrase “arms deal” in Nigeria without actually arming anything, to the less publicised but equally mystifying NDDC palliative fund saga, the clinic accepts all cases with the same efficiency. Once enrolled, each scandal receives a standard treatment: strategic denial, temporary outrage, and finally, oblivion.
Not to be overlooked are the esteemed practitioners at this clinic: our very own politicians and public officials. Their commitment to forgetting is nothing short of Nobel-worthy. Have you noticed how effortlessly some officials transition from answering allegations one week to delivering keynote speeches on accountability the next? It’s an art form.
Then there’s the media, always ready to lend a hand. Investigative journalists dig up cases, splash them across headlines for a week or two, and then move on to the next crisis, leaving the current scandal to the skilled hands of the clinic’s erasure team. No one does closure better than us. Or rather, the lack thereof.
And let’s not forget the loyal citizens, the true heroes of this operation. We rant on social media, organise a protest or two, and then poof! Our collective short attention span is the lifeblood of the Memory Loss Clinic. Why insist on justice when you can unlook?
Take, for example, the Halliburton Scandal. In 2009, a Board of Inquiry was established under the leadership of Inspector-General of Police, Mike Okiro, to investigate allegations of a $182 million bribery scheme involving the American company Halliburton and some former Nigerian Heads of State. Despite Halliburton admitting to paying the bribes to secure a $6 billion contract for a natural gas plant, the case remains unresolved. The United States fined the companies involved, but in Nigeria, the victims of the corruption: ordinary citizens, received no compensation, and no one was brought to justice. The investigation, it seems, was yet another patient admitted to the clinic.
Or consider the Petroleum Trust Fund Probe, which unraveled in the late 1990s. Established during General Sani Abacha’s regime and managed by Major-General Muhammadu Buhari, the PTF’s operations were scrutinised when Chief Olusegun Obasanjo assumed office in 1999. The winding-down process uncovered allegations of mismanagement, dubious dealings, and a sudden, dramatic death of a key figure, Salihijo Ahmad, the head of the PTF’s sole management consultant. Despite the drama and the revelations, the case quietly faded into obscurity, leaving Nigerians with more questions than answers.
Then there is the colossal case of under-remittance of oil and gas royalties and taxes. The Federal Government, through the Special Presidential Investigatory Panel (SPIP), accused oil giants like Shell, Agip, and the NNPC of diverting billions of dollars meant for public coffers. Allegations ranged from falsified production figures to outright embezzlement. Despite detailed accusations and court proceedings, the cases were abandoned after the SPIP’s disbandment in 2019. As usual, the trail of accountability disappeared into thin air, leaving the funds unaccounted for and the public betrayed yet again.
Of course, this institution isn’t without its critics. Some stubborn Nigerians still insist on remembering. Creating spreadsheets, tracking cases, and daring to demand accountability. To these radicals, I say: why fight the tide? Embrace the convenience of selective amnesia. Life is easier when you don’t worry about where billions disappeared to or why someone’s cousin’s uncle’s housemaid’s driver has an oil block.
As World Anti-Corruption Day comes and goes, let us celebrate the true innovation of our time. While other nations are busy prosecuting offenders and recovering stolen funds, we have mastered the fine art of forgetting. Who needs convictions when you have a clinic this efficient? Oh, I almost forgot the anti-corruption day as I sent my draft to a correspondent very late. Don’t blame me, I am just a regular at the clinic.
So, here’s to Nigeria’s Memory Loss Clinic, a shining beacon of how to “move on” without actually moving forward. May it continue to thrive, because let’s face it: without it, what would we do with all these unsolved corruption cases? Demand justice? That’s asking a lot. Better to forget and focus on the next election season. Who knows? We might even re-elect a client of the clinic. Wouldn’t that be poetic?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new scandal to ignore.
Busayo Cole is a Branding and Communications Manager who transforms abstract corporate goals into actionable, sparkling messaging. It’s rumored that 90% of his strategic clarity is powered by triple-shot espresso, and the remaining 10% is sheer panic. He can be reached via busayo@busayocole.com.